


Mercy, Sorcerer!

by LadyTroll



Series: Gloryhammer Reverse!AU [5]
Category: Gloryhammer (Band), Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Creepy, Dark Fantasy, Gen, Massacre, Night, Roleswap, Winter, a surprise character appears at the end, buckle up kids it's about to get dark, countryside, it's my late cat, nobody will ever miss an entire village - OR WILL THEY, reversed Gloryhammer, that's it that's the surprise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:08:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22980745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTroll/pseuds/LadyTroll
Summary: - What have these people done to you, that they deserved such end?!
Series: Gloryhammer Reverse!AU [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1540978
Comments: 10
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, yes, this is still the AU, despite the horrifying tags and warnings, and names.
> 
> The title was inspired by a chapter in one of C. Paolini's books.  
> (there's also one more idea I borrowed from Inheritance, because I'm seriously in love with the thing the characters got going there; this is going to be the only time it happens in this story, though)

Three days on the road did not exactly make any creature prone to kindness, unless, of course, they were one of those fanatics who travelled far and wide, in searches and honour of their gods. This included wizards as well, and, on the afternoon of the fourth day, Zargothrax had come to understand those of his colleagues who had taken the turn for the worse and took up residency in high towers overlooking dry landscapes where they overworked the peasants living in their lands to death, while simultaneously murdering everybody with fire who as much as looked at them the wrong way, heroes included.

When he heard the phrase “the hills close to the village”, the wizard had thought that he was in for a day’s trek, at most. Not three and counting. Apparently, residing for years within the safe walls of a city where “close” meant “next street” had left him slightly disillusioned in what concerned the real distances between two objects on the countryside, because, on said countryside, “close” meant “walking, you will get there in two days, if you are lucky”.

Everything was horrible, the rain that the sky distributed on its own terms was horrible _and cold_ , and it clung to his cloak and made it heavier than the wizard would have liked, and the staff he used to lean on while walking sunk into the roadside mud at any chance it had, and then it got stuck, and he had to stop, to pull it out again, and was forced to watch how the work he had put so many hours into gradually disappeared under the ever-growing layer of black and grey. Even when the rain did cease, on the evening of the second day, it did not bring much of a change along, for the sun remained hidden behind the heavy winter clouds, leaving not just Zargothrax, but any other traveller as well who was stupid enough to brave the road at this time of year with the single option to make fire when they sought to dry.

The young wizard wished Goblin were there, to keep him company, before he discarded that thought and had to persuade himself that his cat was much better off where he was now – at a warm fireplace in a warm, dry house, not stuck on the road in what might as well be the middle of nowhere, with only rain and mud as far as the eye could see.

The surroundings were harsh and unwelcoming, the road a treacherous mix of mud, with ice hidden underneath, and one had very little time to concentrate on any painful memories while he had to remain focused on literally staying upright in the mess that just about waited to trip any unwitting bloke. It still hurt, even with his survivor’s guilt pressed deep down, during the short breaks he could afford during the day, and it still hurt in the evenings and nights when he stopped for a rest, but it was not the heart-wrenching hurt that had been there during his first weeks at the healer’s. It was dull, but it fuelled his anger towards everybody responsible, and that was something he could live with, now that he had learned to channel it into the right direction.

If Zargothrax ever got to the Prince of Fife, or just his two bloodhounds, that anger was going to be the major driving force for him. He had already noticed how it fuelled his magic as well, by almost burning himself in the process of that discovery, as what had been intended a small flame just enough to light the campfire exploded into a small hellfire that devoured the kindling (but did its job at the end). Had this been a case in better times and in the Academy, he would have been worried at best and running for the magisters at worst. However, the way things were now, the young sorcerer merely flinched, before shrugging it off and proceeding with the preparations of a simple meal and getting some sleep afterwards.

He was going to keep it in mind and reshape it later, Zargothrax decided. Turn it into an advantage. Surely, the Prince of Fife could not summon hellfire at will, even with the Hammer, and big birds and barbarians in furry armour burned all the same as well, when it came to that.

It was surprising how very numb a person could get towards such matters. Just months ago, he would have been scared to even think of such things, let alone actively plan to murder somebody, regardless of how awful or evil that person was. And here he was now, spending the time he should use, for sleep, coming up with plans of revenge instead.

“Surprising” was perhaps not the right word, but Zargothrax could not think of another, more fitting.

The afternoon had rolled around at some point, but it could just as well have been the morning, for all Zargothrax cared. The road did not get any livelier – or easier to walk – than it had been in the past few days, and the only event of relative importance had been a small group of soldiers thundering by on their horses, not wasting a second glance at somebody who, to them, looked like a dirty, tired peasant. Zargothrax wondered how they thought a wizard would look like. An old guy with white hair and a long beard, perhaps. And in a hat. Definitely in a ridiculous tall and pointy hat, preferably with stars on it. And an owl constantly flying along and being as annoying as a bird could be.

There had been a few peasants travelling by, in carts pulled by oxen, who turned off the road and into their fields where they stored their vegetable supplies in large pits covered with planks and fir tree branches. Other than that, the only thing to keep the sorcerer company was the scenery – and it was not much of a companion, not with its dull tones and repeating landmarks. Had it not been for the road signs signalling occasional homesteads that lay hidden somewhere in the landscape, Zargothrax would have thought he was walking in circles.

***

A dirty, mud-ridden (just like every other here) road twisted into an ash tree grove, with a wooden sign planted neatly on the crossroads that indicated there was a village somewhere beyond the trees.

Too bad it did not indicate what the wailing of voices in the distance was about.

As Zargothrax stared into the grove, dread mixed with morbid curiosity slowly crept up his spine, and he was not entirely sure which one would take the upper hand in this.

One could not simply walk into Auchtermuchty and demand to be _made_ a necromancer. To even be considered, they had to prove they had the skills for it. One such skill – incidentally the one you learned to block out first thing, before you were even allowed into the crypts where all the practical studies took place – was that you were perceptive to the dead.

Souls of those who had not received proper honours upon their departure would be left wandering the thin border between the world of the living and the dead, wailing as they went on, lamenting their sorry existence that mocked the mortals and the gods the same. And they were annoying and pushy, and latched onto the wizard as soon as they noticed a necromancer, in hopes of receiving help to cross, and would not listen when they were being told they needed a holy man of the gods to finish the rites – or, at the very least, an exorcist – who made their primary task dealing with such beings. For this reason, Zargothrax had always hated visiting cemeteries on the countryside, ever since he was a child, as people tended to save on the rites for the poor and the paupers who died in their village or town, thus leaving the place swarming with souls who had no say in the matter.

Zargothrax, of course, had no memories of being a toddler, but his mother would occasionally, not to mention completely unprompted – as mothers tend to do – mention how her son had “talked” to somebody not there when he was little, as well as strange coincidences that had saved him, as a baby, a couple of times. Including the stained glass incident after which she had not ceased thanking the gods for gifting her child with magical abilities, for how else would one explain a scream – an order – bellowed in her ear that resulted in her snatching the toddler up just seconds before the precious (and very heavy) glass shattered where he had just been.

 _But this_ , Zargothrax shuddered, _this was different._ Regardless of how poor or favoured by beggars the surrounding villages could be, there could never be quite so many in one place. For them to be, the villages had to consist almost only of poor people and beggars, for the sound was not the simple wailing of a couple of forgotten souls of those as unfortunate in death as they had been in life. This, _this_ was a cacophony of a myriad of voices, all calling out from behind the thin veil that separated them from the world of the living.

After a moment of hesitation, curiosity took the upper hand and made the young necromancer turn off the road and into the wilds, as rain began drizzling again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you believe if I told you that stained glass part actually happened to me when I was a wee little lass?  
> (it wasn't actually _stained_ glass with me, though, just glass)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a long one, babes!  
> (in compare to the rest, anyway)

At first, there was the smell. Something similar to what he had felt every time he descended into the crypts of Auchtermuchty. Blood, and lots of it. The first time descending into the tombs, it had made him and everybody else gag, but it got easier to bear, the more often they had descended there. This, however, Zargothrax doubted he would become used to; not on such short notice anyway.

The first bodies he came across on the side of what was most likely a wintertime grazing field for sheep and other small cattle, were it not flooded after the recent rainfalls. No cattle to be seen, only a young man and woman lay there, face-down, dead as they came. If the injuries on their back had not done the job, the deep, watery mud around them had finished it. On the other side of the field, close to the first house in the village, there lay a middle-aged man who, judging by everything, had been limping away as fast as he could before he, too, succumbed to injuries just like the couple and bled into the ground.

It only grew worse as the wizard proceeded. Dead bodies littering the ground under the grey afternoon sky and the drizzling rain, adults and children alike. Gods, there were _a lot_ of children. The doors of most, if not all, buildings were open, and the sorcerer found no strength to check inside, knowing just _what_ he would find there. Death everywhere, brought by the raiders. Did not have to be an expert swordsman, to see that, whoever had been here, had done a messy job, most of the bodies sporting multiple injuries that could not stem from an experienced user of the blade, unless their preferred weapon was a meat cleaver right out of their mother’s kitchen, or all of these people had partaken in a giant bar brawl.

A true feast for the vultures already lured in by the stench and the sight of the dead bodies and only held back by the lone human walking among the deceased.

It was surprising how very numb a person could become towards such matters. Or, perhaps, the reason was that he had no more horror to give, and all he could feel was disgust about being lured into the centre of what remained after a massacre – and the situation in general.

The voices wailed worse with every moment.

The greatest concentration of the bodies was at the centre of the village, at what Zargothrax assumed could be called the main square. Without a doubt, the preparations for a mid-winter celebration had taken place here, colourful banners on strings bright against the grey sky, wind tearing into them with the ferocity it possessed only at this time of year. The few booths that had already been erected creaked, their pitiful voices drowning in the cacophony of the deceased that the necromancer did his best to try and block out.

Zargothrax had never had to work with quite so many before, and to say it was not easy would be an understatement. In fact, it appeared nigh impossible, as new ones took the place as soon as he managed to silence the previous batch. He had only entered the village a short time ago, and yet he feared that the only way of dealing with the restless dead was to escape, back to where he had come from, never to return.

Somebody else will find them. Best that somebody did not find _him_ in the middle of it all, when they did, for no questions would be asked before the stranger casually wandering among dead bodies was strung up.

Against his better judgement, the necromancer crouched next to one of the dead bodies – one of the many children – and turned it over, stumbling back in surprise when he stood eye-to-eye with a dead humanoid with greyish-green skin, long ears and sharp claws. A kitchen knife was stuck in the creature’s side, and the empty, bleak eyes stared into nothingness.

_Goblins._

Now that he knew what he was looking for, Zargothrax could distinguish more and more of the green-skinned pests, their bodies littering the ground among villagers, making up most of those whom the wizard had previously thought to be _children_.

From there on, it was easy to figure out what had happened:

There was hardly a person who had lived on the countryside and never heard of their raids. Usually, the beasts stuck to robbing a few farmers or hunters of supplies; at most, they could steal a sheep or a goat from the collective pasture, but they never came into the villages. Goblins were thought to be lazy, uncanny creatures looking for an easy meal that did not require much work of them. But now, the small parasites must have been starving, and hunger drove them into madness, thus they decided to raid a village instead of keeping to their local area.

Rabid animals they were, nothing else.

Anger swelled inside his chest, as Zargothrax moved on through the village, stopping every now and then, to check for survivors – if there were any.

There were none.

The evening and, with it, darkness approached, swiftly so, and the voices wailed even worse than before, and Zargothrax was about to give up and leave, when a motion in the field caught his attention.

Too small and scrawny to be a human, the figure had visible difficulties getting through the mud, even though it tried its best to put a distance between it and the human it had almost run into. The weather had changed over the time the wizard had spent in the village, the air cold as the ice now, and the creature’s short legs tripped and slipped on the uneven, bumpy surface that was freezing up, the lumps treacherous in their harmless appearance, just about waiting to break the ankles of anyone who had decided to cross the field. The goblin leapt over one of the furrows, only to slip and trip on the next, and landed face-first in a puddle. It mattered little to the beastie, as it struggled to its feet and continued on, its face and long ears covered in drops of water that froze in the cold air.

For a moment, Zargothrax watched, nonchalantly, how the creature struggled, before he strolled to the side of the field. One lazy motion of the wizard’s hand later, the goblin was tumbling about on a patch of grass and stones a few dozens of steps from him, screeching like its life depended on whether or not it was loud enough. Its paws were now caked in mud and blood, scratched against the sharp stones and frozen mud it had been attempting to hold onto while being dragged backwards across the field, and there was a trail in the ground, left by its fingers, leading across the field to prove it.

When screeching did not seem to work, the little beast changed its tactics and, fully persuaded that its claws and needle-like teeth were a worthy opponent in this battle, threw itself at the wizard, only to screech again, as it almost hit the wall of fire that emerged on its path and began approaching from all sides slowly.

Zargothrax held up his staff, watching, almost bored, as the goblin withdrew into the middle of the circle. The amulet, now fastened into the staff, gleamed ominously in the twilight, and there was the smell of burn in the air, and stones heated up as they became engulfed in flames and covered with black sooth within seconds.

The small greyish-green creature screeched like a piglet, trying to cover itself as the flames drew closer.

The wizard felt no pity for the creature. The goblin deserved this. This… _thing_ and its brethren dared come here and raid a village full of innocents, and there was no way Zargothrax was going to let this one get away.

_Even if my friends cannot have justice, these people should not go without!_

\- Mercy, sorcerer!

\- What have these people done to you, that they deserved such end?!

He hardly recognized his own voice. Filled with anger and loathing, it had grown cold and growling, transforming into the snarl of a predator, similar to the one that had been at the back of his head every time he made future plans, in the last couple of months. Always there, always snarling, always reminding about the things lost and who stood responsible for it. The voice he both could not silence and listened to keenly at the same time. A monster, hiding in the shadows, ready to pounce as soon as an opportunity presented itself.

\- Nothing! – the goblin whimpered, cowering in the middle of the fire circle.

\- And still you come here and take their lives!

Anger was a strange thing.

\- We didn’t! We’re not fault! Mercy!

He hurt, and he be damned if he did not make the rest of the world hurt just as badly as he did.

Flames drew yet closer, and the goblin sobbed, as they licked at its furry coat.

Something clenched in the young wizard’s chest, and the cold shiver of dread run down his back.

He lowered the staff, and the flames withdrew and disappeared into the twilight at once, as though they had never been there, had it not been for the blackened stones and the scorched ground to tell a different story.

The goblin did not appear to register its newfound freedom at first, the way the creature was still covering itself, its long ears pressed to the sides of its head.

The moments spent idle felt like hours.

Wind changed its direction – a welcome change, for it washed the smell of death away – and the goblin finally raised its head, carefully so, shivering as it stared around. Once it was certain there was no danger, the beastie bolted behind the nearest house fast, as though a pack of wolves were after it.

Zargothrax found himself staring, wide-eyed, at the spot where the creature had just been, breathing fast as though he had just run a marathon. 

An unfamiliar coldness was spreading through his chest, leaving nothing but a void in its wake.

The young wizard fell onto the nearest stone (luckily, one that had not been in the path of the fire) and clasped his hands briefly while staring into nothing. Slowly, he leant forwards, hugging himself against the wind that now felt like it was shaking him to the bone, his shoulders trembling, breath running short and leaving pained, heavy gasps.

***

He did not know for how long exactly he had been sitting like this, only that the sky had turned from grey into black. The clouds had cleared, for what was the first time in days, and stars were already visible, and the moon, dressed in a thin veil of haze, peered shyly from behind the line of the ash grove, promising clear, cold weather in foreseeable future.

Zargothrax needed a moment to figure out what exactly had been the thing to disturb him, before a hand pulled at his cloak again, and he finally noticed the small figure crouching next to him in the dark.

The goblin blinked, curious about the human suddenly jumping to his feet.

\- Don’t fear! – the creature squeaked.

\- What? _Brought your friends?_ \- the wizard poured all the contempt he had, into the question.

\- No friends. Just me. Friends dead. I survived.

\- Well, aren’t you lucky then. Go, brag about it to your brethren, and leave _me_ alone!

\- You’re not bad. Not like the others, - the creature tilted its head; it was apparent that the goblin did not intend to leave – and neither did it know what personal space meant, for it moved closer and would have gotten tangled into the cloak, had the sorcerer not stepped back – and there was the smell of scorched hair in the air. – You’re good. Just hurt. It would hurt, too, if my tribe died. Other people, they bad. Kill own tribe.

\- Other… other people?

The goblin definitely wanted to tell him something, but Zargothrax’s head did not want to work properly right now, to piece one and one together.

\- U-hu! – the beastie nodded, enthusiastically so, and its huge ears flapped about comically. – The big, scary ones! They got my friends, too! Come! I show you!

Truly, the last thing Zargothrax needed right now was to fall into some sort of trap set by a bunch of green-skinned goblinoids that the little beast might have brought along. Alas, the sorcerer was given no time to reconsider, much less refuse, for the creature was already pulling him along with strength, disproportionate to such small body, as it headed straight back to the village, its paw clutching the wizard’s cloak.

With no light but the stars and the moon, the bodies that littered the ground looked like large lumps of earth, and Zargothrax needed all of his composure not to light a fire that would have provided comfort just as well as it could reveal his location to anyone who might be out there, watching. If the goblins had a trap planned, he would rather not just hand himself to them on a plate, by announcing him incoming long before. Likewise, in the occasion that the beast spoke the truth and _humans_ were responsible for the massacre, it would be just as foolish to walk into _their_ trap instead. 

Magic was good, but surprising the opponent with it was better.

They had reached the village square when the sorcerer stopped dead in his tracks, making the goblin go by the laws of inertia and land face-first in the mixture of mud and blood that had soaked the ground.

The scarce moonlight reflected off of a dark puddle where there should be no liquid on the ground by now. And yet there it was – an ominous mirror made of blood that had not yet hardened in the chilly evening air.

Disregarding the offended squeaks of the goblin who, without a doubt, was cussing him out in its language as the creature tried to pick itself up from the slippery ground, Zargothrax strode over to the puddle.

The body had yet to cool down. The small, trembling light at the top of the wizard’s staff, with its range barely sufficient to cover the face of the person on the ground, revealed a girl, maybe thirteen years of age at most, with round, plump face that still bore childish features, and long, what appeared strawberry blonde, hair that had been fixed in a braid that the blade of a sword had split and that lay, half untangled, on the ground around her. Eyes open, sightless, she looked like she was gazing into the sky overhead and could have easily been mistaken for merely resting.

How she had survived this long, one could only guess. Pure spite and the will to live, most likely.

The will to live was a marvellous thing that had made her last this long.

The irony of life was a cruel thing that had taken her life just before help could arrive.

Could be maybe ten minutes since life had left her.

Not even the most skilled, experienced necromancer could return her now; not the same way she had been. A hollow shell of a person would be the most they got. Inhabited by a restless spirit that saw it as a free passage into the world of the living, if lucky enough. But never the same.

The young wizard was sorry he had not happened across her earlier. He simply did not check this far into the market square. Or he had, but missed her. The ominous feeling of failure scratched in his chest. If he had just used magic, to check for survivors, instead of relying on his own senses…

Had he used magic, the girl would not have had to pay for his mistake, with her life. He was not that great at healing spells, and, to tell the truth, to the recipient they felt like somebody had poured a bucket of cold water over them, but he could have at least made her last long enough to get to the next settlement, or to a homestead, at least.

_The fact that she had most likely seen or at least heard him, but been too weak to call out for help…_

Zargothrax shook his head. It did not do, to dwell on such topics; there was already too much he felt sorrow for, to add a nameless peasant girl to it.

\- What you do? – the goblin stuck its muzzle closer.

Paying no attention to the creature’s whining, the necromancer crouched next to the body and placed one hand on the girl’s forehead.

She was at the front of the crowd, curious as any her age. Memories swirled and flashed, evasive, but willing to be corralled by a virtuous master.

Men in armour, dirty from the road.

Curiosity.

What do they want here?

Ma says lucky are the girls who catch their eye.

Hush now, he is speaking.

Visions were blurry, but he could make out the main hero of the morbid story.

\- We know you are hiding a wizard! – Ser Proletius’ voice was powerful, cold and cruel like the winter itself. – Hand him over to us, and we will leave you in peace!

Wizard? 

What’s he talking of, pa?

The memories changed, as swirly as smoke climbing from a chimney. The Grand Master of Crail spoke, but it was difficult to make the words apart as the humming in the crowd grew louder. The vision failed again, and then a soldier approached, and it failed again, and then there was the grey winter sky and the smell of blood, and somebody’s moans, as death descended upon them, and then Zargothrax let go of the memories.

He needed a moment to process what he had just seen.

 _The king’s forces. Here._ Those had most likely been the soldiers he had seen on the road, and they were headed _here_. He recalled the figure riding in front of them, a hood deep over their eyes, head bowed on chest to shield their face against the freezing wind.

_Grand Master Proletius._

A growl broke from the wizard’s chest. Vicious and hateful, it rung in the chilly air, and the goblin that had not left his side, instead crouching next to the sorcerer, now jumped back, fearful of landing within another circle made of fire.

The bastard had been _so close_ , and Zargothrax had not even been aware of it.

The sorcerer shook his head, with that forcing the anger deep down where it could fester until the time was right.

Other matters were more pressing than a knight who was most likely far away by now. He could, of course, go on a rabbit chase that would take him all the way back where he had come from and even farther – and somebody a little more reckless would have done exactly that – but there were simply no means for it.

He was alone, and one man, even if he were the most powerful wizard in the land, was just _one man_.

Besides…

_A wizard, hiding in the village?_

Zargothrax cast a sneaky look around, before letting his magic crawl through the area, feeling about it like an octopus with its tentacles, in hopes to find any trace of another sorcerer in the darkness. It could be anything; from spells embedded into a structure, to enchantments clinging to somebody’s clothing, to the area where an epic battle had taken place between the king’s soldiers and the mysterious magic user and that still carried faint echoes of spells flung at the enemy.

Nothing.

Just a regular village after a raid. Buildings with doors left wide open as the soldiers had scouted the area while simultaneously ransacking and looting everything that was not nailed to the floor. Cowsheds where impatient, hungry bovines mooed, in hopes to attract the attention of people they heard walking outside, in a cacophony with the bleats of sheep likewise left to their own devices.

But no wizards far and wide. Well, except for him, but that was hardly a consolation.

_Guess it would be too much to expect of the world, to throw me a bone here._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those goblins be trusting, though. Good for the little fellow.

The green, annoying thing chirped something in its own language as it hopped along ahead of him, and, as if he had not been before, Zargothrax was slowly getting fed up not just with the goblin, but everything in general. Ever since leaving the village behind and entering the grove, the creature had only led him deeper into the wilderness, and the wizard was not sure he liked where this was going.

It was late, the cold air felt like the bite of the needle-teeth of a goblin on the young sorcerer’s skin, and, even though the moon had risen and was now shedding its light upon the land generously, the grove was dark, and the trees reminded of the skeletal hands of corpses roused from their graves, as they reached towards the night sky. In the moonlight, the surrounding fields had gained a gleam, as though mischievous fae had poured a cauldron of molten silver on them. One almost forgot it was just mud frozen into ice.

It felt like that time of the day when the fair folk were out on the hunt for stupid souls to lure right into their traps, and Zargothrax was certain that, at one point, he had seen a gleam farther in the grove that moved about, the light twitching as it soared through air, hovering above the ground like a leaf carried in a current of wind.

_I have to be insane to do this!_

Had he been able to light a fire, it would have been different. More bearable, in any case. Humans, even the practitioners of magic, were clearly not made for late walks in the darkness when mind began painting pictures one worse than the other, not to mention the ground and trees that, on the contrary to his imagination, presented a very real, tangible danger. As such, now that Zargothrax was aware of the actual perpetrators of the massacre, all he could do was rely on the hope that the goblins’ vision at night was as great as it was rumoured to be. Thinking about how close he might have been to getting discovered in the village, solely due to the fact that he could not get his emotions under control, sent chills down the young sorcerer’s back.

It would not do, to die like that, surprised by a bolt in the back, the courtesy of a soldier who simply got a lucky shot at a distracted wizard.

At one point, he thought he saw something: a white flash behind the trees that disappeared as soon as he attempted to take a closer look and that reminded the wizard of something he had already seen months ago.

He never did find out what happened to the unicorn, and had assumed that the animal was off to a much happier life, someplace random cunts would not bother him.

_What could be the odds?_

He discarded that thought as mere coincidence and continued on, stoically ignoring the eerie feeling of being watched that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

\- There! – the squeal tore him from thoughts, just when Zargothrax had contemplated how the goblin was most likely an illusion created by the fae and how it was luring him into a trap made not by the goblinkind, but the fair folk instead.

Far as Zargothrax was concerned, he was even willing to believe it was an adventurous _kelpie_ that had learned to take the appearance of a goblin, the way the creature had discarded the incident from before as if the wizard had simply made a mistake by grabbing the goblin’s coat instead of his own at a fancy gathering, not attempted to kill the beastie with fire.

There was no trap made by the goblins, nor by the fair folk, at the end. If there was, the ones to set it up had not been aware of the fact that humans – and that included wizards as well – usually turned their figurative tail and run at the sight of dead things piled up.

\- We’re out looking for food, - the goblin chirped, blissfully unaware of how all the human wanted right now was to get out of the grove as fast as it was possible, as he once again got entangled in the sorcerer’s cloak, in what Zargothrax rightfully assumed was fear. – We found some food, right there, - one long, clawed finger pointed into the general direction of trees and more trees. – So much food in pile! And then the big scary men do this! I run and stayed alive!

\- Big, scary men? – it was the second time the goblin had mentioned them, and, combined with the memories in the village, Zargothrax was slowly beginning to piece the larger picture together.

\- Men in iron.

\- Soldiers?

The goblin nodded; his long fingers coiled around the edge of the wizard’s cloak.

One did not have to be a genius, to understand that a bunch of soldiers slaughtering goblins, and then a bunch of those dead goblins mysteriously appearing in a village where people were, likewise, slaughtered, by the same soldiers, had everything to do with each other.

_But of course! What better way to hide what you have done, than blaming it on somebody else!_

Goblins were considered, by everybody, to be dirty, thieving, barbaric bastards who were scared back by nothing. The moment he had seen the corpses, Zargothrax, too, had been persuaded it had been a goblin raid - _because why would it not be a goblin raid?_ They raided homesteads and hunter camps all the time! A large tribe, mad with hunger, slaughtering peasants in a small village, to get their supplies? He had been ready to eat those lies right up, no questions asked. Anyone who came across the village would. And making it look like a raid was easy. _Of course!_

\- Men in armour, - the goblin’s squeaky voice only confirmed Zargothrax’s assumptions. – Why do this?

The wizard already opened his mouth, to answer, when voices rung clear in the night, accompanied by a horse neighing, and the sound of hooves hitting the stiff ground could be felt rather than heard, as they closed in.

The goblin still stared at the pile of the dead bodies of its brethren, detached from the rest of the world, his large eyes bulging, and the beastie therefore became completely dumbstruck when the sorcerer grabbed him by the scruff and pulled the creature deeper into the grove, off the route and behind a cluster of bushes that could or could not be gooseberry, that could keep them hidden while still providing a vantage point over the heap of dead things and its surroundings.

\- Don’t make a sound, don’t even breathe, – the wizard hissed, before a shimmering cloud settled around them, and now they were hidden from the world and whoever was making their way through the grove, just moments before the light coming from a lantern lit up the area.

As long as the goblin was silent, the danger of being discovered by regular people was minimal.

A couple of knights came into view, their horses snorting, rearing at the sight of the dead goblins piled up on their path, and Zargothrax heard how his little companion drew a ragged breath.

If the goblin could not keep quiet, the sorcerer decided right there and then, he was going to strangle the beastie, _or so help me!_ Being discovered because a green humanoid was incapable of shutting up did not go with his plans in the slightest.

\- Man, what a mess, - one of the soldiers pulled a grimace, reining his horse in, the light of the small lantern that hung from the animal’s breast collar stark enough contrast against the dark to burn its way into Zargothrax’s faulty eye, making the sorcerer clench his teeth in expected but nonetheless unwelcome pain.

The thought flashed in the wizard’s mind that he had to do better than this; he could not afford to let this injury become a burden, or an impediment.

\- Of course, we’re the ones to sort this shit out, - the soldier prattled on, without any idea just _how_ inconvenient his lantern was to the person currently hiding a few meters from them, - while _His Excellency the Grand Master of the Knights of Crail_ rides idly away.

\- How he lasted for days on horseback is a mystery in itself, - his companion agreed, and it appeared that neither of them had any problem with slandering “his excellency” right where they stood. – The Knights of Crail are such delicate flowers I bet his arse has more blisters than all of ours together.

That statement was followed by a couple of loud snorts, as both men found that thought fairly amusing, and Zargothrax had to admit that it _was_ fairly amusing indeed, and even more so because it referred to the cunt going by the name of Proletius.

Not to mention it brought him amusement that the simple soldiers did not think too highly of their superiors.

\- Was he trying to be closer to the regular soldiers, riding like that?

They had climbed from their horses and were busy pouring something on the corpses. Rapidly, the winter night became filled with sharp, unpleasant smell that made everybody present wince, and Zargothrax had to clench his fingers around the goblin’s shoulder, to keep the beastie from throwing himself at the humans who had no reservation about how they were supposed to get rid of the evidence that might indicate something was off about the goblin raid.

\- Mate, - the second man stretched, after hooking the can onto the saddle again (his horse did not appear to like it in the slightest, given how the animal treaded and danced the spot), - I don’t care for the games these cunts play. I’d rather work under the barbarian… what’s his name again? Something about owls? Hooters?

\- The Hootsman?

\- Yeh, that one. The _Hootsman._ At least he’s not playing power games; he just says it the way things are, doesn’t matter if you like it or not, and then you can do what you want with that information. Eugh, would you look at the fucking mess. Goblin blood is so difficult to remove. 

\- At least it’ll pay well. Just scorch it up, and let’s get out of here! This place is giving me the willies. And don’t give me that look! Saw _you_ staring around like somebody was after you, back there.

Flames took on almost immediately, as soon as one of the soldiers had put a light to the bizarre pyre, almost throwing Zargothrax off his concentration and leaving him struggling to keep the invisibility spell up, as the grove became as bright as if the sun had risen mere meters from him.

\- _He saw me staring around!_ I’d rather not get snatched by the fairies! They say those cunts love such places. You saw the light, too!

\- It’s probably just a ghost light. Who’s a delicate flower now?

\- I swear, - the soldier threw his hands up in exasperation, - one day I’ll polish your mug, you cunt! All I’m saying is that you’re right and we should get the hell out of here, before some glittery bastards drag us to their mound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, well, what have we here.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now guess, if you can...  
> 

Zargothrax had had to hold the goblin back, as the creature had wailed not even a bit less than the lost souls did, before attempting to throw himself at the pyre, chattering something in its language, all while the wizard’s greatest worry had been that the noise could attract unwanted attention, should the soldiers still be in the near. Not very likely, since they had thundered away long before the wizard deemed it safe to dissipate the spells (the invisibility and the one he had used, just in case, to keep the goblin where he was) which, in retrospect, had turned out to be a good investment, for, without anything but the wizard’s hand to hold him in place, the beastie would have flung himself at the soldiers, and that would have been the end of their disguise right there and then.

\- They should be in ground! Not burn! – was the only coherent thing that the goblin had said, at least in a language that Zargothrax understood, as the creature sat, hunched, on the floor of the cave he had brought them to, tearing up and hugging the clay jar that had still held honey at that moment – Zargothrax made a mental note, amused, that apparently honey was to a goblin like alcohol was to a human.

Zargothrax had had no answer for him then, just like he had no answer now. It was late, he was tired, but it was impossible to sleep. In addition, he usually found it difficult to fall asleep in a new place, be it a new room, new house or – like now – a random cave. On the road, he relied on short naps, while simultaneously having to keep an eye open, in case of danger that could be lurking in the dark, or approaching from it. On the road, however, he had not had the comfort of something as simple as a light, relying on magic to keep him warm after the dinner was over and done with and the campfire extinguished, for fear light would be noticed by the wrong people. The red light, for he was tired and had therefore resorted to magic, deeming it less of a hassle than searching his bag for the flint and lighting a proper campfire, provided at least some sort of comfort regardless of how scary its ominous gleam was, as it danced on the stone walls and spread into the camp, painting everything it touched red as well.

The young sorcerer turned his head, to look at the goblin sleeping on the other side of the small cave, the creature curled up around the clay jar which the goblin had appeared so excited about that he had literally been jumping up and down, before promptly stuffing its contents into his face and getting the sticky golden liquid everywhere on it. Zargothrax vaguely recalled something about how honey was supposed to be a gift of good will, or something, among the goblinkind. Really quite similar to a neighbour dropping by carrying their own homebrewed moonshine with them.

Zargothrax was too tired to think about random neighbours, or vague goblin traditions right now.

He was too tired to think of _anything_ , for that matter. It had been a long day, and an even longer evening, and the hike through the fields, as he was led by a sobbing, slobbering beastie, had felt like two days and nights in a row. Alas, it appeared he was – oh, the irony – also too tired to sleep. The campfire crackled, filling the cave with pleasant warmth and light, and all Zargothrax could do – unless, of course, he wanted to put a spell on himself next – was to stare into the stone ceiling, as he toyed absent-mindedly with the amulet.

The red jewel glimmered in the light of the campfire, scarlet tones reflecting off the stone walls.

The shadows slowly lulled him to sleep, and Zargothrax had finally begun dozing off, when his body jerked awake, on the behalf of how difficult it suddenly became for him to breathe.

The wizard searched, frantically, for his staff and the amulet, only to realize they were nowhere to be found.

Somebody had come across the cave, even despite the wards he had set up; somebody had entered the cave and used the moment when both him and the goblin were asleep, to make their move. Rumours were, the prince’s allies had ways of telling wizards apart, and the logical way was to assume that the Grand Master of Crail had not left, had tracked him down and…

And there was a large tabby cat with long grey fur sitting on his chest, as though it was the rightful place for the animal to be, as it washed behind its ears without a hurry.

Zargothrax breathed in relief.

Just an old cat that had wandered all the way here and chosen the cave, to stay overnight. The wizard wondered whether or not wards actually worked on animals. Probably not, since there was a cat in here right now.

\- Oh, - Zargothrax reached up, hoping he was not going to scare the animal away. – Hello.

_Hello, magician._

His hand stopped before it had reached the feline. The cat blinked, lazily so, as it sat up, reminiscent of a living statue now.

_I have a message for you._

The wizard stared.

He was just tired. The whole day had felt like multiple days strung together, and Zargothrax was tired and sleepless, and…

_And not very bright, for a magician, right?_

The voice was _in his head_ , rather than being an actual sound. It was female, it was low, it was soft, almost lazily so, and it fit the cat. Of course, a cat such as this was supposed to talk in this exact voice. A high-pitched screech simply would not do; not for a regal lady such as her.

The cat yawned.

_Is there a question you must ask?_

\- Who are you?

_I am many things, but you may think of me as a werecat._

\- There is no such thing as werecats.

 _Well,_ the cat stretched herself, yet the voice inside the sorcerer’s head kept talking, _where I come from, there is no such thing as unicorns. Yet here, they are very much a thing. Either way, as I said, I have a message for you._

\- I don’t even know who you are, neither do you know me. You expect me to trust somebody that just walked up to me?

 _You are the only survivor of the massacre of magicians of Auchtermuchty that took place a couple of months ago. I know not your name, and, frankly,_ she sat up straight again and proceeded to stare right into the wizard’s eyes now, unblinking, her great white ruffle puffed up, _I do not care for it. All I have is a message I am supposed to give to the only magician that survived Auchtermuchty. Afterwards, our paths will separate, never to cross again._

\- A message from whom?

_It does not come from behind thick walls, neither does it come from high chairs. Who sends it is irrelevant, in the grand scheme of things. Now, the question is, do you accept that, or are you going to behave like I were here to steal your soul?_

\- I… don’t have much of a choice, do I now?

_Oh, love, we always have a choice, but sometimes that choice is about what we choose to do with the information we are given. Thinking without knowledge can be dangerous, don’t you agree?_

\- I’m sorry if I insulted you.

_It’s okay. Many a person assumes things for what they are not. I would be surprised if you trusted me. Alas, my only concern is that you receive the message. Everything else is entirely up to you._

\- I’m sorry. Yes, please.

_Clever lad. And now, listen:_

_When seems to you, you stand alone, look back and then look on, where answer lies behind a stone, concealed with ancient charms. Should help you need, to move on forth, go down in depths of purest stone, where friends unlikely throne. The answer lies, but well concealed, and one that lies shall be revealed. That is all._

\- Oh, great, it’s _a riddle_.

 _It should be one that is easy to guess,_ Zargothrax was willing to bet that, if the cat could have, she would have shrugged, _at least for a magician. Good-bye._

\- But…

The weight was lifted from his chest, leaving the young sorcerer gasping for air in a now dark cave. The fire was out, but, thankfully, the warmth still lingered, and dull sunlight had breached the morning twilight beyond the cave entrance, heralding a new day.

Zargothrax patted the floor around him, relieved to find the staff right where he had left it the previous evening, and the amulet in his…

_The amulet was gone._

The goblin leapt away, out of the sorcerer’s reach, before Zargothrax managed to stumble to his feet; the amulet was clutched tightly in a small, clawed paw still sticky with honey.

The strange dream forgotten, Zargothrax snarled, realizing what his carelessness had brought upon him.

\- I found! – the little beastie announced. – Is _my_ shiny stone!

The wizards cursed under his breath.

_Serves me right, for trusting the goblinkind._

Goblins were not after _expensive_ things. They liked shiny stuff, and it just so happened that jewels and precious metals were the shiniest things out there, and the large ruby had, without a doubt, attracted the creature’s attention.

The beastie could have it, for all Zargothrax cared, had it not been for one crucial nuance: preparing and tuning a jewel to the wizard was a task that could take weeks, if not months, to accomplish, and that was the time he did not have at his disposal right now. Going on without it meant he would have to rely on a very, very unstable force that could burn his face off should the sorcerer attempt to cast a spell without something to channel it.

There was something about goblins, if only he could think of it before the critter escaped…

_There was something… something…_

It was not like wizards were taught this, extensively. Most of it were just old women’s tales told at the fireplace in the evenings. They said that a goblin’s trust could be obtained by…

_Food._

_Of course, they were such creatures whose life centred around when their next meal was and what they meal was going to be._

\- What if I trade you something?

The goblin’s eyes widened, as he beheld the small fabric wrap offered to him. The potato-like nose twitched, picking up the vague scent of bread.

\- Trade? – he appeared suspicious, as he clutched the amulet to his chest.

\- Trade. This, for your shiny stone.

\- No trick?

\- No trick, I swear!

The goblin clambered closer and reached out, still suspicious, for the packet. Once the clawed fingers had locked around it, the amulet landed in the sand, and the creature leapt away, clutching the fabric packet to his chest, as he chirped in that strange language of his.

The amulet once again in safety on his chest, Zargothrax dropped on the ground and slouched against the stone wall, exhausted as though he had not slept at all:

\- And what am I supposed to do with you, huh?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other people: *crafting marvellous visions and whatnot, to aid their main characters*  
> Me, dumping my late cat in there and promptly breaking the 4th wall in the process: "You do it!" *thumbs up*  
> (this one's for you, Nika!)

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all better be grateful for this, I hurt my wrist while writing this thing.


End file.
